


The One In Which He Didn't Make It Home.

by Tolpen



Series: The Skirt of Time [3]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Racism, Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Family, Gen, Murder Mystery, Psychological Trauma, dealing with a loss, functional relationship, parenting, well "mystery" we all know who did it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-20 05:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17016591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: (You don't need to read any previous fics from this series to read this story.)In The Boys With War Paint we have seen Vimes dealing with being stuck in the past in another leg of the trousers of times. But how is faring the leg into which he didn't make it back?Tags, characters and warnings will be added as the story develops.Now with added soundtrack!





	1. The Sand

**Author's Note:**

> I am experimenting with a new style of writing, so maybe let me know how it works for you, too? What you like and don't like and so on and forth? Write comments! Feed the gremlin behind the keyboard writing this!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very long metaphor involving sand. A man, whose eloquence is more of a vice than a virtue, is trying not to fall apart due to his long-time neglect of emotion management.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30th December 2018: Updated with minor changes from NaCleric, my perfect betareader-slash-boyfriend.
> 
> Suggested listening:  
> [Evanescence - Bring Me to Life (Synthesis)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5QFLV_lzeQ)  
> [ Stuart Chatwood - A Brief Respite ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpa8APFmrZQ)

Being the Patrician is hard. Once you've said your oaths and taken the keys to the city and the Palace, things become slightly difficult to handle. Maybe you don't notice it at first, those things are like grains of sand. When you're moving, the grains fall off you but when you're still, they stick. That is what holding an office means – standing still. It is hard to notice the few grains which fall in your hair. But they accumulate. When there's a handful, you feel them scratching behind your collar. Eventually you find yourself buried on a beach of your own making, of your own inabillity to handle the small grains of sand.

 _Maybe it isn't the patricianship,_ Vetinari admits to himself while he watches himself in the mirror. The man in the mirror is him, which isn't as reassuring as it should be. _Maybe I have just been very inefficient in processing the sand the whole time._ But certainly, his position was not helping. On the contrary.

Patrician, a _good_ Patrician, and not only him but any kind of a good leader stops being a person. This metaphor would be easier if Ankh-Morpork was a monarchy. That's the only thing monarchies are good for, the metaphors. What people see when they look at a king, or a queen, Vetinari isn't being picky, isn't the person, it's the crown. But while you may stop being a person in the eye of the people, you cannot stop being one physically. There are things which make you a person, but not a Patrician.

To name a few: Fear. The Patrician is afraid of nothing, he stands tall and proud. Nostalgia. Past is simply something that was. It is to be learned from, not to be recalled fondly. The desire to throw all these papers out of the window and spend the rest of the day in the bed because gods' grief, you are tired. Curiosity. The Patrician doesn't run around the city scrambling for news for the Times, but Vetinari still wonders what it would be like. He thinks he'd like doing that, he's always had his way with words. Regret. If only things were different, if only I could have done something! Little daily struggles.

All those things are like the grains of sand which make every person a person. If you can't process the sand, others can help you with it. When you are the Patrician, you aren't a person to them, and so they don't acknowledge the sand on you, since only a person can have sand on them. And Vetinari was awful at processing sand. Mainly for the reason that in his formative years he didn't acknowledge he could end up anywhere near around it. It took him a very long time and one person to figure that out. But so far he's always managed, shoes and pockets full of sand, not comfortable, but fine.

Now a sandstone cavern has collapsed upon his back.

He throws up into the washbasin a couple of times, cleans his mouth and face with cold water from the pitcher and slicks his hair back. Alright. He can do this. He has to do this. He hasn't got many other options. He's fine.

When he gets to the Oblong Office, the servants are willing to believe he is the Patrician and that the Disc isn't falling apart. Yes, the Commander of the City Watch has been missing for a while week now. Things have been rather stressful. Yes, the Duchess of Ankh has died yesterday,but it was expected after the complicated child birth and it was a miracle she made it that far. At least the baby was okay. Young Sam. Things are becoming hard, they change in ways we don't like, in ways we don't know how to deal with. But the Disc isn't falling apart.

Only there is so much sand. It's hard to walk on the dunes. Or perhaps on the quick sand. Doesn't matter. It's sand and it's hard to move for the mountains of it. Words were failing him. Perhaps the real Disc wasn't falling apart, but his metaphorical one was.

There's Downey in the Oblong Office. Vetinari doesn't notice him at first, so either Downey is getting better with age, just like brandy and wine, or Vetinari is distracted. He almost dismisses it as the latter and then stops and reminds himself that just because Downey was absolutely awful in youth should not cloud his opinion of his current self. After all, that man has been second in charge of the Guild for a bit longer than ten years, and unlike the Guild Head, the second was free game if someone wanted to climb the ladder. Then again, Downey has been always lucky. Vetinari is just tired and distracted. The fact that Lord Downey's presence hasn't been announced to him by anyone proves nothing. Assassins' Guild aside, people rarely have perception skills above those of an average goldfish.

He doesn't ask how did the man get in. He doesn't even wish him a good morning. He offers him a chair, though, an offer which Downey refuses with a shake of his head.

Downey is fidgeting, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. He doesn't do that often, fidgeting. He does it only when he is uncertain. The man can be stoic and expressionless, still as a mountain when scared, nervous or overwhelmed. Uncertainty within him was different and rare. That's also something, Vetinari remarks, that changed over the years. Nowadays, his uncertainty shows, something that was unheard of back in the day. And he can stay still, no less, a thing impossible for him to perform in the years long gone by.

He decides to strike to the heart of the matter: 'What do you want?'

'To help.' The answer is prompt. Maybe a bit too fast.

Vetinari quirks an eyebrow at it: 'Could you elaborate on that?'

Downey sighs and drapes his coat over the backrest of the chair he has refused to sit on. 'Look, this... is going be a strange request, but could you move from behind the table, please? This is something Iwant to say to Vetinari the Dog-Botherer rather than to Vetinari the Patrician and the table isn't really helping that.'

Vetinari has a very eloquent variant of 'go to hell' on the tip of his tongue and then he remembers the stranger staring at him from the mirror. He stands up, walks around his desk and makes himself comfortable on Downey's coat. It's heavy brocade with lots and lots of steel in it. He can feel a handle of a knife digging into his elbow. 'Well,' he says. 'I'm all ears.'

The knuckle-rubbing does not cease. It takes Downey a while to assemble his thoughts into a sentence. Vetinari cannot help it, but the back part of his brain, the one that thinks about what he's thinking, wonders how many times had Downey rehearsed this.

'I am more than aware that our, ah, past relationship is not something either of us would like to recall,” Downey starts. 'Mainly my fault, I admit.'

'Mainly? Are you indicating that I had a part in the nature of, as you have nicely put it, our relationship?'

Lord Downey shoots him a look which says 'Could we go nit-picking later, please?' Out loud he continues, rocking on his heels: 'And I am also aware that ever since than this other relationship we are having is, I suppose, strictly professional, for the sake of our own sanity and conscience. Not like I am complaining about that of course,' he adds in haste. So much for whose sanity and especially conscience this professionalism is being held. 'But I... I understand that I am probably crossing the line here, whoever had drawn it, but I want to... I want to offer my help. To you.'

'Your help, to me?' Vetinari would laugh but is afraid it might come out as hysterical rather than obviously unamused. 'And pray tell, what are you going to help me with? The growing tension between the trolls and the dwarves?'

Downey pulls a chair and sits down, finally. Their eyes are on the same level now, or they would be if Downey stopped hunching with finger in his hair. 'When I said I rather didn't speak to the Patrician for once, this is what I meant. No, no. Not to the city, gods know I am doing my best here on that front, not the politics, nothing like that. I mean to help _you_.' He sighs an exasperated, tired, despaired sigh.

'I know that... that you've never been one to be social. Never had many friends-'

'Are you implying,' Vetinari hisses, voice cold like Hubland wind, 'that I am lonely? That you, what, offer friendship like a lifeboat? Is that-'

'I am stating the very obvious fact that the closest friend you have had here has died on you and the person on whom you've relied probably the most in the past years, like hell I know why, has disappeared and we have little hope of finding him, and you've promised to take care of their week old child without having any experience with children and infants that I know of.' The man is breathless, the last few words barely a wheeze. 'And I _think,_ that is a little bit too much for one person to bear, even if that person is you, the ever unmoving stone blah blah blah, emotions happen to other people, sure, I know, I know, you can handle all of this on your own, I have no reasons to be concerned, except you are going to stretch this into much longer sentences. That's not the point, though. My point is that you don't have to. Handle this on your own, I mean.' He looks at him, the long measuring look which makes people think of measuring bodies in the morgue. Except this look is suddenly much softer. Caring, perhaps. Still, Vetinari does not say anything.

'If it helps you, try to think of it that I am just trying to help the city.' Downey gives a weak smile. 'Surely this circus wouldn't be faring any better if you had broken down, would it? Oh. I take it as yes. But for the record, Dog-Botherer, throwing yourself like this around my neck could result in you getting impaled on something sharp.'

'Don't call me that,' Vetinari mumbles. He has no idea how it came to it, but he's crying, crying the ugly tears feeling the cramp in his diaphragm twisting his lungs inside out, which is just a fancy way of saying he's got one hell of a hiccup.

'We aren't on a fist name basis, and anything from 'my Lord' to 'Vetinari' sounds too formal.' Downey cannot help but giggle. In a way, the horrible hiccup is funny, although it is impossible to speak thorough it.

It takes a while and a breath exercise to say that now that they indeed are on first name basis, but only in this sort of a private setting, and oh, by the way, Downey, thank you, in case it wasn't clear enough. In turn, Downey tells him to put his face in order, Captain Carrot is going to be here every minute now, and that he, Downey, is going to drop by later. He leaves thorough the window.

Vetinari puts his face in order, falls behind his table, and stares at the ceiling. He has hands folded on his chest, and yet he feels grains of sand running thorough his fingers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I know this started a bit of dark, but I promise the following chapters aren't going to be like this, alright? Sometimes just writing from emotionally repressed person's point of view be like that.


	2. Storm Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the turmoil it is good to check what's been broken, what's been only damaged, and what's have been left whole. This chapter serves as a second part (of two) of a prologue to set the foundations for the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:  
> [Maribeth Solomon&Brent Barkman - Lowlands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7VAMqHGR8c)  
> [Matthias Bossi&Jon Evans - Acceptance ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mO4GdYnYOFs)

The days go on, the Disc is still spinning and so far holding in one piece, metaphorically and literally as well. There is sand everywhere, also both metaphorically and literally. The Oblong Office has its windows closed despite it being very hot, because there is a sandstorm outside.

'I just don't like the fact that the wind's bringing all the Klatchian sand here,' Downey mumbles. He doesn't do so in the Oblong Office because he is not there. He mumbles it in the Ramkin-Vimes estate on the completely other side of Ankh. The estate also has its windows locked and barred, still sand somehow manages to seep in thorough some places. 'Probably thorough the chimneys,' Downey has said earlier.

Vetinari, carefully watching Downey holding the little baby in his arms, says: 'I thought you like Klatchian sand. You have told me about your work trip to Klatch not so long ago, and it seemed that you had a good time in the sand.'

'I like Klatchian sand,' Downey hisses, 'when it's in Klatch. Also, hangovers are what _follows_ good time, I didn't get intoxicated in the desert at all.'

'Right, that was in the harem.'

'Well, the girls were rather nice, you know, and I've never been to a chick-party before.'

Vetinari eyes little Sam a bit more and then he asks: 'Cannot this sort of talk leave, I don't know, some kind of permanent mental damage on the baby or something? A trauma?'

'Nah. People don't remember things that's happened to him this early,' Downey shrugs and cradles the baby's head. For being only a month and half old it already has a surprising amount of reddish-brown hair. Vetinari's said that Sybil used to have hair like this. He would have continued on the matter, but it's been enough to make him cry and Downey isn't that kind of a person to press the matter in such a case. To finish his thought, he continues: 'Besides, I don't think he understands Morporkian yet.'

That puts them on the safe debate about the nature of languages and their importance. Vetinari is still firmly holding his ground that there is nothing more important than language. Downey's grounds change very frequently, depending on how much he wants to be annoying or how tired is he or what was the last lecture he's been holding or what and if he's had eaten, but altogether all his opinions and stances can be summarized as 'Meh, languages.' This topic holds on for an hour before the nurse-maid enters the room and the both men politely leave. As Downey has put it: 'I know it's biology and I know how it works and why, but I still feel no need to be present at it if I don't really have to.'

So they chicken out of the room where the breastfeeding is about to happen like men and take it as a sign that their parenting duties have been done as thoroughly as they were able. Downey heads for the door, he has a lecture starting in twenty. Vetinari doesn't have to go anywhere, because he's brought his work with him.

'You oughtn't to be going anywhere in this weather, Gil,' he says softly as Downey reaches out for the hat.

The Assassin replies: 'I have a lecture. And don't call me that.'

'You haven't to be at the lecture, you can always research the topic later and still get credits in the exam in the end. Also, it's your name, and we are on first name basis now.'

'That's a bad approach to education, I'd rather be at the lecture. As to the name thing, try to find some better spelling if you necessarily have to use it. Maybe something staring with W instead of G.' He's nearly out of the door and then he remembers something and turns around with a smile: 'And I still have to be there, given that I am the one giving the lecture. Sayonara.' And like that he's out.

Part of Vetinari is glad for the man's absence. Part of Vetinari is sad for the exactly same reason. The remaining part looks right, looks left, considers its two sisters too busy with each other, and so it takes the moment to politely tap on Vetinari's shoulder to remind him he hasn't eaten anything in the last sixteen hours and that in the kitchen is still the mysterious box of Agatean takeaway Downey has brought him. Vetinari agrees with that part of himself that it is having a good point and goes to help himself to some unhealthy fried rice with probably fresh and definitely raw fish drowned in soy sauce and, given the weather, sand.

It tastes absolutely horrible and Vetinari, who is a bit out of practice with the chopsticks, is delighted beyond measure by it, because Agatean takeaway is meant to be exactly like that. What is the point of Agatean takeaway if it doesn't turn your guts inside out?

The past month has been overall horrible, too. It made Vetinari feel better, because he has expected it to be absolutely awful and also because he's been told that it's alright for it to be awful. He's spent a lot of time with Giliam. William. Guillaume. Downey. First names are a bit tough thing when its owner himself isn't sure what it is spelled and pronounced like, and hasn't used it in twenty-odd years. Well, actually, Downey himself hasn't used it since they both were in, what third grade? Maybe fourth grade.

Vetinari has done his best to purge his school memories of everything but knowledge. Sometimes he wonders: Are there many people who have spent thirty years of their life trying to forget the previous fifteen? Probably not. Probably he is just... not emotionally capable of carrying that. He's never been good with emotions.

He is so bad with emotions that Sybil had to tell him how bad he is with it.

That was a very poorly timed thought, right now he cannot afford another tearful breakout. Not enough water for it. He reaches out for a glass to drink something and goes to his paperwork in the small nursery room.

In weather like this, nothing usually happens. Nobody goes outside, nobody plots anything. After the storm there is damage to be calculated and evaluated. Financing the sand removal in this particular case. But nothing during the storm.

He goes over the papers. When he runs out of work, he reads them again, because memory can get dusty. He's authorized the Assassins' Guild to take on Carcer. 'If we get to see that bastard ever again.' That statement has made some eyebrows hit the hairline, because it has been said by Captain Angua.

There is the matter of the City Watch. Technically speaking, there isn't a need to find a new Commander. The Watch had gone without a Commander for centuries until very recently. Captain Ironfoundersson would take over the Day Watch, Captain Angua over the Night Watch. Probably.

Vetinari wants a Commander. Firstly, Commander has a very nice sound to it. Secondly, instead of two Captains a day, Vetinari has to speak to only one Commander a day. Thirdly it makes the both halves of the Watch cooperate more together, to the point that people have already forgotten there is something like Day and Night Watch, only policemen serving day and night shifts. Fourthly... No, there probably isn't any fourth reason. Vetinari simply wants a Commander. That's as many reasons as he needs.

He works in Young Sam's room, the child is asleep. He informs the servants that once the storm has calmed down a bit, he'll leave. Instead before that happens he falls asleep. He must have fallen asleep, because he doesn't remember moving from the armchair to the soft play mat, neither wrapping himself in a dozen of colourful blankets like a cocooning caterpillar.

He doesn't make any mention about it, exhumes himself out of the duvet grave, which sounds easier than it actually is when you have your arms tied to your sides with all the wrappings, you thigh is giving you one hell of a cramp, which is what has him most likely woken up, and the softness of the play mat provides you absolutely no support.

He kisses little Sam goodbye on the head, the month and a bit old baby only hums something in its sleep. Vetinari leaves the room and the house. The streets are covered with sand as well as is his chariot, both outside and inside. He hasn't got it in him to walk the whole way to the Palace, so he suffers thorough this little discomfort.

He cannot help it, but now he feels everywhere like an intruder. He has no place in the Ramkin-Vimes estate, he is sure of it, despite being a patron or a custodian of the child. He is too much of a person, emotional and tired and distressed, to roam thorough the Palace like he is used to.

When he sits down in the Oblong Office to continue in his work, Drumknott enters with a stack of damage reports and a half apologetic clack from the Klatchian Nineheaded Scorpion University in El-Kinte for the caused inconveniences. Vetinari makes a mental note to spark a little patriotic fire in the hearts of the wizards of the Unseen University, but only a little fire. Gods know Ankh-Morpork couldn't afford a war, let alone a wizard war.

'Drumknott?'

'Yes, my Lord?' The secretary shuffles his feet near the door as he has been just leaving. Apparently, that is not happening now.

'Have you ever felt like an intruder in a place you have every right, or perhaps even every _duty_ to be?'

Drumknott has an innocent smile and a show going on when he looks around the room like he's never noticed the Office really being there before this moment. Then he says: 'I am trying not to let it interfere with my work performance sir.'

Vetinari looks at him for a long while, unmoving, unblinking, and Drumknott stands the gaze like a stone. Later in his journal the secretary will compare the moment to facing the Medusa, and then he'll burn the page to ashes in a candle flame as he has burned all his previous journal entries.

Then the Patrician looks at the top of the stack of the papers and with a new interest asks: 'What do we know about this so-called Mr. Shine?'

'I can find that out in a few minutes, sir.'

'Excellent. I will also want to speak to Captains Angua and Carrot at four o'clock. Hmm... And Sergeant Detritus at four thirty. Oh, and Lord Selachii at four forty, I'm afraid. No, not Lord Selachii, Lady Selachii instead. Who to put order among sons better than the mother?'

Drumknott bows an inch deeper than is necessary and hurries to sort it all out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the gremlin with some comments, maybe? Thoughts, opinions? What did you like, what did you not like? Where do you think we are headed with this story?
> 
> Next on: A resolution to Carcer's story, something about languages, an excerption from Tiamat's Gaia, and dwarf culture and mentality, not necessarily in that order, not necessarily in the right next chapter.


	3. Root Vegetable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Carrot protests and Lord Vetinari reads from a book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:  
> [Rafferty - Mausoleum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ch53Ul-jr7E)  
> [ Jenn Sakura - Fear not this night ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jRLwdNyX3w)

Carrot has tried his best to protest it. Or to at least postpone it. Indefinitely if possible, but a month or three weeks can't really harm anyone, right? Angua, of course, is amused. Fred Colon is amused by that, and then it saddens him when he realizes how much the two police cubs resemble Lady Ramkin dash Vimes and Commander Sam. Although, he is not entirely sure which one would be who.

He's tried everything that has come to his mind to avoid it.

Direct disagreement and insubordination: He says: 'No.' To which Vetinari replies that he is afraid that yes.

Making it someone else's problem, thank you very much Frend and Nobby for your years of training: 'Why cannot it be Angua, sir? She would do much better than I. If _literally nothing else,_ she is older and more experienced in life.'

Vetinari, looking out of the window: 'While I am known to cross the lines of tradition and what is and is not usual, I am afraid that putting a woman in such a leading position would prove challenging even to my authority. Secondly, I don't want to figure out what is the feminine variation of a knight. Besides, I thought that between the two of us, Captain, is... an understanding.' (Downey translates that after two glasses of too sweet brandy later that evening as: 'To you, Angua's an unpredictable bitch, pun not intended, and you can push that root vegetable much better wherever you want him.' The Vetinari asks him how long has he known about Angua, and Downey will only grin in reply and whisper 'boom.')

Postponing into indefinite: 'But sir, now we have a lot on our schedule, and I frankly really haven't a time to start organizing such a-' and right there and then Vetinari interrupts him with a smug smile and saying that everything had been already taken care of.

Denial. The Patrician ignores that, but Carrot doesn't give up on it. He goes back to the Yard and denies what has happened. He continues home, still denying it. He believes that if he manages to erase it from his brain, it is as if it didn't happen at all. That results in a very surprised Gimlet and a massive hangover the following morning.

Angua has been there and heard all of it, so at least he is spared the trouble of explaining it all to her. Come to think of it, he's probably been there with him the whole time. He has no memory of getting into the bed.

She is there now with him too. She cradles his head, her arms are soft and everything smells a bit like wet fur and chamomile, everything is warmer now, calmer now. Carrot would like to stay there like that forever. A cup of coffee is pressed into his hands and he barely manages a 'thank you' and an upward sitting position.

Angua watches him as he puts himself back together, piece by piece. That's a metaphor, he is fond of it and proud of himself for understanding it. Angua is beautiful, there are dark bags under her eyes, her hair, so much of it and so golden, are knotted in a messy bun on the top of her head, she is wearing one of his shirts. She is so beautiful. He loves her. He is aware of it in moments like these. He has no idea how to tell her that, but then she probably knows already.

She is beautiful when she kisses him on the forehead and says: 'Stay home, alright? Have a day off. You need it. I'll go and explain the Yard what's happening and when it's happening. I'll emphasize that they shouldn't try to pull anything on you if they don't want to get on my menu.'

Carrot blinks slowly twice. It's a difficult task. It hurts. 'Aren't you a vegetarian?'

'Yes, _Carrot._ ' The grin is somewhat feral. Even bestial. Oh gods, she is so beautiful that it makes Carrot's head spin.

Captain Angua comes to work half an hour late and when persuaded on the topic, she says that her morning root vegetable was hogging up her time.

Later she finds Sergeant Detritus and heads out on a patrol with him. That's the police way for saying 'I would like to speak with you somewhere private.'

Detritus rumbles besides her like only a troll can rumble and when they turn the corner and the Pseudopolis Yard is finally out of their sight even if they turn their heads around, he asks: 'What do you wanna know Captain?'

Angua looks around. Of course, this is Ankh-Morpork and there is no such a thing like 'completely alone,' but then one doesn'T like when everyone is listening too closely. She sighs and gives a half-hearted shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. 'What did the Patrician want to talk with you about? I mean yesterday. Carrot was a bit too dazed to notice you on your way in, but I noticed.'

'I am a hard to miss,' Detritus nods, 'so that says sumfin' 'bout the Captain. I ain't really sure what did the boss want me to talk to. Y'know how it be. He did all the talkin'. But, 'n' this is the weird bit, he wanted to know what I fink 'bout it all.'

'About all what?'

Detritus scratches his head and then he slowly says: 'How much do you know about Koom?'

  
  


'It's unbelievable how fast he's growing.'

Shifting of paper and child blabbering switch places. 'Trust me, at this point you want him to be growing fast. The sooner he grows out of this octopus-like state, the better.'

'How many children have you actually raised up, Vilhelm?'

'Basically the whole Academy ever since I began teaching. And find a different spelling.' Downey is grading essays with his left hand, and with the right he's making sure young Sam doesn't fall out of his lap. Young Sam is busy chewing a plush kitten.

'It's your name,' Vetinari says with a distinct tone of displeasure. 'You should be the one making the efforts here.'

'It's not me who wants to use it.' Somebody has just failed their poison class.

'Did you know that the Überwald equivalent is Wilhelm? Or Vilhelm. Guildhelm even, around Blitz, I believe.'

'I like Guildhelm. After all, I am at the helm of a Guild. Metaphorically speaking. But it would make for a better title than a name. It is terribly impersonal.'

Vetinari puts down the stack of reports he cannot bring himself to focus on anyway. 'Why are you making it this hard? Gods know I am trying and you aren't.'

There is a long silence. Downey's expression doesn't change at all, but his pen stops moving. It is a beautiful pen, the tip is a miracle of modern metallurgy and metalwork. If he wanted, he could kill with it and there wouldn't be a dent in the metal. Vetinari wonders if such a thing has actually taken place. He isn't wondering about it right now, but sometimes he thinks about it. That pen isn't made for writing, it is made for stabbing. He can imagine it pinning his hand to the desk of his table on the Oblong Office. That thought should not be so alluring.

'I am being honest with what I am saying,' Downey concludes finally and the pen moves again. 'That, I suppose, is the easiest I can make it for you.

Vetinari gives up: 'What's wrong with William?'

'There are thing in the past which I would prefer not to connect with. Such as the name. The past is dead, the name is too.' His gesture is dismissive and Vetinari knows that were he to pry on that topic any further, Downey would maybe tell him, but he'd be also absolutely insufferable in the following days. It's not worth the trouble, and besides it is probably something he can figure or find out on his own. Not like he thinks it necessary.

Instead, he thinks. Downey doesn't want a name, so when he throws one at him, there should be some other reason for him to take it. An added value, if you wish. Except the added value is, in fact, the name itself.

'Hmm, have I ever told you I am only quarter Morporkian?'

Downey seems surprised at the change of the topic, but to give him the credits he doesn't groan or even roll his eyes. 'I am aware. The guild was forced to memorize your family tree when you seized the Office. Even the maternal side, so yes, I do know. Although to answer your _question,_ no you haven't told me. You rarely tell anyone anything.' It is said with a sting of reproach.

'Ah, so you know about my late grandmother from Netherglades. And here I hoped to surprise you.'

'And you are pulling that old unfortunate women out because?'

'Oh, she was particularly fond of the name Gilen. My only memory of her is that she told me that. She was all wrinkly, reminded me of a turtle, and liked the name Gilen.' Vetinari smiles and he makes sure it is a soft smile. He clings to all those little memories he has. Meseroles neither the Vetinaris have been lucky in carving their way thorough the life if what you count are the living members. He is certain Downey is aware of that that well. And too polite to mention.

'Are you trying to get me approved by your deceased grandmother? Oh, Sam, no, no, don't chew _that._ '

'Maybe I am. Anyway, since we are in private-'

'Gaaaah! Brlllblb blub blub?'

'Well, I have faith in your absolute confidence, Sam, of course. Now, if you allow me to continue, I'd like to ask Lord Downey, how is his special guest doing.'

Downey sighs and puts young Sam to his little bed so he can drool over the dragon plushies. 'He is still very uncooperative. Sadly, I am afraid that any attempt at a longer discussion could prove fatal to him, as I lack this particular kind of patience. And before you ask, yes, I have prepared this sentence beforehand. I am almost up to claiming that he doesn't know anything and bash his skull against the floor until it splits. It'd be very therapeutic.'

'I can imagine that,' Vetinari's look is almost wistful. Then he blinks as his brain gives him a polite notice, and he asks: 'Almost?'

A shrug. 'He behaves like someone who actually knows something but is reluctant to say it. I don't think he believes that withdrawing it would save his skin. After all, in his position, who'd want to get their skin saved anyway, not like he has much left of it?

'So what are his reasons?'

'I don't know. But I want to find out. I want the reason, you want the truth. I'll get to them eventually. Which is solely why I am still bothering. Havelock, be a darling, find a book. I think it's a bed-time story time.'

Vetinari picks up a book. It is The Grandfather's Garden, it has a large orange grandfather on the cover with a basket of very red apples and behind him are very green trees. Meanwhile, Downey is packing up his things.

He opens the tome at the bookmark and begins: 'This is a carrot. It is orange and grows underground. Carrot tastes sweet.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next on: Plot.


	4. To the Bottom of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a dead body and experts are called to deal with the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boosted by positive feedbacks, here I come. I only hope I got all the names right.
> 
> Suggested listening:  
> [Charles Perry - Ev'rybody Wants To Be A Cat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yq8XjPReQpw)  
> [ Kevin MacLeod (Edvard Grieg) - In the Hall of the Mountain King ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDNMWQJlDto)

The Disc keeps spinning, because that is what discs usually do when you let them to have it their way, and nobody is foolish enough to try to stop a disc big enough that it has to be carried by four space elephants and one galactic turtle from spinning. Well, of course, there are people who in fact _are_ foolish enough, but they tend to select themselves out of the gene pool _very_ quickly. The point is the Disc keeps spinning and the days go by.

The spinning brings Ankh-Morpork closer to the evening. It's time for the bed-time story for little Sam.

'This is the crimson-lily-of-the-valley. Crimson lily of the the valley is scarlet and deadly. Grandfather says: Ho ho ho, it is so poisonous that it will kill you if you touch it. Don't forget your safety gloves and don't breathe near it too much.'

There was a light yet firm cough from the door, indicating that whoever has made it has been standing there for quite some time. Gilen Downey doesn't even look up, only turns a page in the book. 'This is the apple,' he reads. 'Apple is red and sweet. Grandfather says: Ho ho ho, it grows on the apple tree.'

'Tee!' Sam beams from his cot and propels a plush bunny at the Downey's head. The man catches it mid air without taking his eyes from the book, and tosses it back. Sam laughs, he likes it when things fly. Vetinari nods and takes his leave, he still has a lot of paperwork to sort out.

'This is the remember-me-not. Remember-me-not is blue and bitter –'

'Gilen!'

'This is the broccoli. Broccoli is green and good. Grandfather says: Ho ho ho, it looks like a little tree.'

  
  


The spinning brings Ankh-Morpork to the morning.

Vetinari is sitting in the Oblong Office and is sore all over. Especially now it is his head what hurts the most. He rubs his temples and the bridge of nose. Drumknott has recently picked up a book on body language, and he is translating this as: 'I don't want this to be happening, and especially happening to me.'

'So Hamcrusher and Aredent,' he mumbles.

Carrot, still standing in full attention blinks. 'Sir, I haven't said a word, sir.' Vetinari only glares at him. If he had to wait for the information to reach him thorough the watch, Ankh-Morpork wouldn't be where it is now. 'What do you expect us to do, sir? No, wrong question. What do you want us to do? I'm fairly certain that you expect us to do something just, reckless and half-way stupid.'

For the first time since he woke up, there is a hint of smile tugging at the corner of Vetinari's mouth. 'I want you, Commander Ironfoundersson, to do something just, reckless and half-way stupid, as you have so eloquently phrased it. It's a murder, do your job.'

'Of course, sir. Glad to have your blessing for it.' Carrot fidgets with his helmet.

'We have not spoken on this matter and you have no sort of a blessing. If you want a blessing, visit a priest. However, on your way down, pick up Lord Downey and take him along.'

Carrot is at loss for words. 'Lord Downey?' He takes it in with a long breath and then starts protesting: 'Sir, with all due respect, I don't think that's a good idea. He is a human, dwarf mine is not a place for people like him. And I don't really think he would like to work with the Watch. Or the Watch with him, for the matter.'

His Lordship stands up and draws the curtains open to gaze at the skyline. The day is bound to be beautiful, at least in the regards of the weather. It's the beginning of Grune. Of course, there was a storm hanging out and waiting for the right moment to fall in. Both metaphorical and literal. He can see the dark clouds forming over the Circle Sea and the rimward-counterwise wind carries them swiftly to Ankh-Morpork and from Ankh-Morpork across the Sto Plains to Überwald. Also metaphorically and literally. Gods be merciful, may the metaphorical wind be slow enough to be outran.

'Lord Downey is a man of many qualities, as you may find,' the Patrician finally points out. 'One of them is, that I am certain of his return back to the surface.'

That makes Carrot pause for a thought and Vetinari continues: 'Besides he is very fond of the idea of coming out with as many people he ventured in, his judgement is not racially clouded, and dead bodies are his field of expertise, so to say.'

'Yes, sir, he makes them.' Carrot couldn't help it.

'Indeed he does, Commander. He even went to school to learn it. In this regard, his education surpasses mine.' Vetinari tapes the window glass two times. A bright yellow butterfly takes off off it and aims for the darkening horizont. 'I can assure you that the Assassin Academy puts even greater focus on what can the bodies tell you than it focuses on teaching how to inhume. I believe that combined with the methods of the Watch, it will provide an unique forensic experience.'

Commander Carrot Ironfoundersson, Knight, hasn't had his morning coffee yet and after a double shift followed by a night shift the little censor in his brain has decided to call it a day, and that is the only explanation why he allowed himself to say the following: 'You like watching it when people tear each other apart, don't you?'

Hid Lordship chuckles. 'Don't let me detain you, Commander.'

  
  


Absolutely nobody is happy. Which, in Angua's personal opinion, is at least fair. Getting inside has proven fairly easy. A lot of people let you in if you have Carrot who does his Stare. Or maybe it is Lord Downey who is in less-than-pleasant mood. They have dragged him out of the bed. He's managed to dress up and grab a cup of coffee which he is now slurping as fast as possible without scalding his tongue, but he hasn't bothered with his hair or face. His appearance, as Angua has just figured out, is usually at least half an hour long work with various make-ups, and without them he looks much older and far more tired, and also a bit sickly. And angrily sharp, because the coffee is still a work in progress.

They have been ushered in, Captain Detritus remains standing outside holding guard with Corporal Ringfounder. So just the three of them – a dwarf two meters tall, a werewolf, and a bloody Assassin. The waiting room is empty save for a couple of crates. Downey has made himself comfortable on one and spaced out, his eyes focused ahead. Angua took a step aside so he wouldn't stare right thorough her. Carrot is standing in full attention and as for herself, she is leaning on a damp wall. It's much colder in here, it's actually very comfortable.

She takes a deep breath. If you pu aside the mould and wetness, the ever present scent of dwarves, Carrot's soap and Downey's mint and the coffee, then you get, hm... Hmmmmm...

Carrot quirks eyebrows at her. (He's never learned how to do it with just one.) She mouths 'dead body' at him.

Downey nods. 'Well, that explains it.'

'Explains what.'

'Over there, Captain,' Downey points with his now empty cup at the wall opposite to him. In the plaster full of mould and cobwebs is a deep carving. A circle with two diagonal lines thorough it.

Angua traces he carving with her hand. 'What is that?'

'It is, well...' Carrot's voice sound uncharacteristically wary. 'It's a mine sign. It means Following Dark, I think it's the closest translation.'

Downey pulls a face, but hasn't the time to say anything, because a dwarf enters. He introduces himself as Helmclever, a _rk'bak,_ and he doesn't bother with translating the term. Helmclever takes them down to his office which is a mess of papers. Although, he offers them coffee. Except for Downey, they all refuse.

'Drinking a lot of coffee lately, huh?' the Assassin starts a conversation while looking over a Thud playing board. He has to admit that this is a particularly beautiful one, stone instead of the usual wood.

'Oh, well. I suppose. Why do you think?' Helmclever sounds nervous

Downey makes a vague gesture to his face. 'Constricted pupils, often blinking, you are shaking all over. Of course, stress also plays into it, but you may want to look out for hallucinations and also drink more water. Caffeine overdose kills, sir. Try not to learn it the hard way. We don't want another dead body here, do we?'

Helmclever gives a weak smile which is only noticeable because his beard moves. 'No, I am sure we do not.' Then he realizes what he has just confirmed and gasps.

The room is frozen in that moment: Carrot bent over the Koom Kodex book. Captain Angua trying to look nonchalant. Helmclever with eyes full of terror who hasn't dropped his cup of coffee only because his brains hasn't figured out how to unclench the fingers from around it. Lord Downey with a polite conversational smile, bed hair, and half-full paper cup of coffee.

'Ah, that would be Commander Ironfoundersson,' says someone at the door. The temperature drops by another two degrees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, maybe you want to check my side blog https://squadron-of-damned-writes.tumblr.com where I post snippets from the WIP fics as I write them, often with some sneering comments.


	5. Following the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt to uncover what has happened in the dark, and Lord Downey reveals one of his qualities, much to the dismay of one dwarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:  
> [Maribeth Solomon&Brent Barkman - Hull is Other People](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUipQIE9k90)  
> [Ridiculon - Everlasting Hymn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_qNoDZJkMk)

'Yes, that I would happen to be.' Carrot turns around to face the incoming dwarf. The dwarf in question looks like a cone made out of heavy leather with a crack where eyes are supposed to be. The tip of his tall hat or helmet or whatever it is reaches to Carrot's chin.

'I was expecting you and your... company. Grd-zuh ba mr'wa, Kzad-bhat. B'ijg-tlak kr'ra-kek Ik-ar'pa. Mik-ka, Bza-tha-ga.' The dwarf makes a dismissive gesture and Helmclever hurries away with a deep bow.

'For the sake of my companions, I would prefer if we kept to Morporkian,' Carrot says as he follows the dwarf deeper into the mine and motions at Angua and Downey to follow.

'Ry'rak kno 'ds.' They make their way thorough an elevator, as Carrot explains to them, and then a tunnel. The dwarf keeps speaking Dwarfish and Everyone else is silent.

Downey's eye roll is nearly audible, but he doesn't bother with a comment, as the tunnel suddenly comes to the end. The end is a large space lit by a beautiful yet eerie glow from above.

'What _are_ those?' he hears Angua whispering in front of him.

'Vurms, if I am not mistaken. They are native to Llamedos. The fluorescence serves both as a lure and thermoregulation. Most notably, besides the light, is the fact that they'll eat anything organic.'

'You say lure as if they were predators, your Lordship.'

'It's not exactly easy to get out of Llamedos caves once you get inside, Captain. I think that luring is the most fitting term. Although I believe that in mines the dwarves use them as illumination and universal janitors,' Downey shrugs.

The dwarf hums in surprise as he opens one of the round doors they have come to pass. The small space behind it seems like an office with a couple of dwarf chairs. 'You seem to be very educated on the nature of these animals.'

'Oh, suddenly you know Morporkian?' Downey cannot help but sneer as they sit down. Carrot is the only one whose kneecaps don't hit the chin, because he tangles his legs in Klatchian sit.

The dwarf gives him a long look. 'Until now I haven't been speaking of things concerning you. I am only genuinely curious what a human like you would want to see in a dwarf mine. Obviously you are not of the Watch, and as such you have no legal power to investigate under the Ankh-Morpork law.'

'I am Lord Downey, perhaps you have heard of me. Local expert on corpses and how to make 'em. I have been officially called in as an unbiased witness to all and anything that happens here.' Downey's calm and ease was radiating and the vurms on the ceiling seemed to be swallowing it by ounces.

'I see,' the dwarf said. 'And unofficially?'

'Pardon?'

He persuaded further: 'You said that officially you are here as a witness. What are you here as unofficially?'

'Ah,' much to everyone's surprise, Downey's face sprouted a soft blush. 'I am afraid that I am repaying for my sins. I have strayed from the sacred texts.'

'Hmmm... I suppose I understand. You may know me as Ardent.' And with that he turns back to Carrot, as if he has never acknowledged anyone else's existence.

The talk is completely in Dwarfish. For Angua it's too fast, so she doesn't even bother listening, and Downey seems to be zoning out with his paper cup which is criminally devoid of coffee. Both Carrot and Ardent sound very unhappy with what they are saying and what they are hearing, but they also sound very resolute. Angua thinks: Unstoppable force meets with an impenetrable object. But who is which?

Suddenly both dwarves, because Carrot also counts as one, stand up and head out. 'Grag Ardent,' explains Carrot on the way out, 'is so kind as to take us to see the Deep Grags of this mine. They could consider us, well consider me a _zadkrga_. That means that I would be the official investigator of this murder.'

The walk thorough a web of tunnels'So we are officially having a murder?'

'Could you sound less cheerful about it?' Carrot sighs. 'Yes. Hamcrusher was murdered, there is some fray evidence that it was at the hands of a troll, and– Where is Lord Downey?'

They looks around, but the Assassin is nowhere to be seen. That doesn't have to mean anything, because this is, after all, an Assassin, who is wearing black and they are in a very dark tunnel.

'The vurms don't seem to sense him either,' Ardent ponders. 'You two wait right here and I will go, find him, and bring him back.' He left them alone with most of the vurms and traced back the same way they came. He was barely lit by the eerie cold glow and behind him darkness followed.

  
  


Lord Downey has a very good sense of orientation, and besides he has visited the lower Ankh-Morpork many times before. He is somewhat sixteen meters below Kicklebury street, close to Goose Gate. He makes another couple of steps further with the certainty of an Assassin whose eye is used to the night. The vurms? An absolute luxury of light, although the slithering noise is getting under his skin, like if the animals themselves are crawling there.

He reaches a door. Round, all iron.

'Do not enter – Fatal danger of flooding,' he reads the Dwarfish runes on the door.

Death. _Fresh_ death. He feels it. When you are an Assassin, you have to develop a couple of sixth and seventh senses. Especially if you were raised in less liberal times. Such as that there is someone behind you.

He knows about Ardent before he hears him and he hears him before he can see him. The dwarf isn't attempting to be any stealthy.

'Here you are,' Arden hisses, steaming off anger and... is that fear? 'Kz-dra'hna 'mak.'

'Well, if you would _really_ leave me alone here, I would really appreciate it. What, Dwarfish isn't all that hard.'

It is a provocation. Downey knows it, Ardent knows it. But Ardent's nerves break first, after all they have been already pretty cracked in since the start. He pulls out the axe and swings it at Downey.

Downey doesn't step aside, he doesn't duck, he doesn't move away. Ardent can only stare as the white haired man catches the blade into his right palm. It is as if the axe was stuck in ice. Ardent can't move it, although he tries.

The vurms close in and the two men stare at each other illuminated in cold green and blue and red and white. Downey's hand is dripping blood.

'I think, Mr. Ik-ar'pa, that this rushed action was very unwise of you. Lord Vetinari is counting with my return. He wouldn't be pleased if I didn't make it.'

Ardent lets go off the axe, but Downey is still holding it. 'Vetinari isn't the boss here.'

'Be my guest and tell him as much, because he thinks the very opposite. But I can let you know from my own experience, he takes it badly when he is proven wrong. It's not really worth the trouble.' The axe clinks as it hits the floor. By the time Ardent recovers it, vurms are eating the blood and sweat off it already.

The dwarf wails: 'Why have you even left the group? Why did you have to come here?'

'Call it a gut feeling, dsazkga-bra, if you will. But behind this door,' he pats the iron producing a few hollow thuds, 'is something that should not be there.'

'Better on that side than this side,' Arden spits on the ground, barely missing Downey's shoes. 'Now let's get back to your police friends, otherwise you'll be lucky if anyone ever finds your bones here.'

'Oh, what an eloquent person you are. I think that you and Havelock would really have a great time talking together.'

As they leave the tunnel, only the vurms on the floor and a palm-shaped spot on the door indicate that they have been there.

  
  


'Well, that could have gone far worse,' Lord Downey squints into the daylight and heat of the starting afternoon. To be completely honest, he wouldn't mind staying in the soothingly dark and cool underground for another couple of hours, but only if food was provided. So far he hasn't eaten today.

'I have a very bad feeling about the whole thing.' Carrot is looking very tired as they make their way back to the Yard.

Detritus tries to see the positive aspect of the whole thing: 'But the dwarves said that you can go back tomorrow 'n' smelt. How is yer hand doin'?' The question is aimed at Downey.

'Hurts like the third day of the plague.'

'Well, that is not surprising. It is quite a deep cut you've managed to get.'

'See, it's very surprising to me, uh, Corporal.' Downey has to look at Ringfounder twice to come up with something to call him. 'I've lost all feeling in that hand quite the time ago. Nerves like a pulp or something like that. I'll have our Guild doctor to take a look at it.'

'Try not to get lost on your way there. I'd hate to explain it to his Lordship'

'I'm not getting lost, Commander. I'm only seeking trouble. Anyway, 'ta.' Downey makes a motion like he would be tipping his hat, but he hasn't got any, and just like that he disappears into the crowd.

'Queer people these Assassins,' Detritus rumbles. Everyone agrees with him.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this has been a burst and now it's over. enjoy silence for the future six years when I forget to update.


End file.
